


Loyalty

by AlyxStar



Category: Dragon Age II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyxStar/pseuds/AlyxStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke never was one to make things easy and clear cut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loyalty

**Author's Note:**

> So you either refuse Danarius and have everything go to hell, or hand Fenris over to him. I DISLIKE THE LACK OF OPTION FOR A PREEMPTIVE STRIKE.

He'd suspected - he'd  **known** \- it wouldn't end well, it wouldn't be a simple reunion. But he'd hoped, foolishly ( _never again_ ), that perhaps he was wrong. Maybe it would be the chance to rebuild lost memories, place names to half-remembered faces, sights to smells. Piece together the shattered fragments of his life one piece at a time, rediscover the meaning of family, care for his sister.

Never again would he be so stupid, a silent and viciously angry vow as the disgustingly smug bastard attempts to  _barter_ with Hawke.

He was not a slave any more! Not something to be bartered for, exchanged between hands like some piece of treasure or loot. He  _wasn't_. Why was Hawke even giving the man a chance to  _speak_?! And yet... just a glance from those pale, pale eyes has horrible instinct clawing at him to drop his gaze, get down on his knees.  **Obey** Master's wishes.

"So what shall it be, dear lady? An upfront payment for taking such good care of my property, followed by a hefty reward once it is back where it belongs?"  _It_ , not he. His blood boils, but the rage is a quiet thing in the background, for once granting him focus in such a potentially fatal situation.

Hawke doesn't answer.

Fenris counts fifteen seconds before a greyed eyebrow twitches, the only outward sign of annoyance that would have previously resulted in him kneeling at Danarius' feet, begging forgiveness for a wrongdoing and spilling the pleas for mercy the Magister took such sadistic pleasure from. Anxiety crawls up Fenris' spine, skin chilling as the man grows more restless, to the point Aveline murmurs the name he can't bring himself to utter for fear of his voice breaking. Still no answer, and even he has to chance a look at her. Hawke's face is stony, eyes guarded and calculating, grip white-knuckled on her staff. Surely she couldn't be  _considering_ the offer?

"... Hawke?" Her lips pinch into a thin line, decision made, damn near drawing a flinch from him even as he swallows down a plea.  _Please, Hawke, don't do this._

"You may take Fenris."

 _No! Oh Maker, no, please no._ His greatsword wavers, strength deserting his arms, the shriek of metal on stone falling on deaf ears as his throat works soundlessly around the words lodged in his throat. He hears startled murmurs from their - no, her - companions, but he pays them no mind, staring at Hawke in horror, willing her to look at him, to  **see**.

_Don't send me away._

A coinpurse is halfway across the distance to her, in the grip of a masked rogue, when she holds up a hand to bring pause.

"One one condition." Silence. The lyrium brands itch through the numbing fog settling in his bones as the atmosphere takes on a subtle charge.

Magic. Agitation. Danarius had never been fond of delays.

"Which is?" He can hear the anger boiling under the civil prompting. There is oil slithering between the two parties, thick and suffocating, the next spoken words a potential lit match, and he's never been more afraid of what Hawke might offer. Some other lyrium-laced slave ( _former, she hasn't handed me over yet_ ) might as well have hooked claws embedded between his ribs for how tight his chest feels, how he struggles to draw breath. Did her finger twitch?

"You may take him... when you step over my dead body!" Something tears past him with all the might of a charging Ogre, a shimmer in the air knocking fighters aside as it propels towards the bastard. A moment's confusion, her words barely registering, and then surprise melts to  _fury_ on that hated face as a barrier is summoned and chaos erupts and  _Hawke_ is the one charging forward with an enraged battlecry, fire leaping from her fingers in hungry tongues to devour the able bodies that rush to meet and swarm her.

He curses, thrown for a loop, unprepared for her sudden dash, and sprints in the wake of her recklessness, igniting lyrium brands as he goes.

Of course Hawke wouldn't betray him, he should never have doubted. But he still wants to strangle her for engaging Danarius in conversation at all.

* * *

 He can't move, arms pinned to his sides and back arching as pain - mind-numbing  **agony** \- crashes through him, following the map of scars and markings and forcing his blade from nerveless fingers. The bastard is so close, so  _close_! If he could just extend his arm and -

_Submit, my little wolf. Submit and return to your Master._

Seductive whispers, poisonous, luring, beckoning -

No! He musn't! He couldn't betray Hawke, his friends, himself.

Blood and smoke, curling, layering, touching in the barest hint of a lover's caress. It would make him shudder, and likely vomit, were he not magically bound so completely in place. The hurts quiet as the magic shifts, nerves stilling in their announcement of injury and spell-induced riot.

_Submit, and it will all be over, little wolf._

**Lies!** Years of pursuit, haunting, always looking over his shoulder, hiding in the shadows, unwilling to even sleep.

_I had to find you, little one. You were lost and alone, so very afraid. But you need not fear now, for I am here. Relax... Give in..._

_No! No no no no no, get out of my head! I am not yours, I was never yours!_ Unbidden, Hawke bursts into his head as bright and blinding as the noonday sun, smiling at him, that time she'd cradled his useless arm and sent healing magic along the shattered bone, so warm and soothing where it should have felt boiling, sickly, alien, wrong.

Hawke, and her laugh as Shadow slobbered over her face and neck, the precision of her castings against Carta thugs, pummeling them with elemental damage. Screaming at Carver's retreating form, flirting with Isabella, doing battle with Varric and using words as her weapon of choice.

Hawke, the mage he should hate like all others, but oh so obviously couldn't. Nothing like Danarius, and everything Fenris hadn't realised he  _could_ want.

_Foolish boy. You think she would want you, an elf?_

_She -_

_Your talents are convenient to anyone of high standing. Only I can love you as you should be loved. You know this, my Fenris. Return to my side and we can stop this madness._

_No, no! Help me -!_

_Yes, dear boy, that's it. Give -_

"Release him!" The raw yell pierces through the lulling haze with all the wicked fury of an autumn storm and he drops, like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut, gasping down lungfuls of air and feeling around clumsily for his greatsword.

"Jealous? I must admit the lad  _is_ skilled -"

"Shut your mouth Danarius!"

"That's Mast-" He cuts off with a startled cry, and Fenris looks up again from trying to find his Maker-damned weapon. The air shimmers around the cretin where he's inexplicably pinned beside the staircase.

"Now Fenris!" It's a sharp hiss, edged with exhaustion. Hawke's hand is thrown out, fingers curled like gripping talons, and he doesn't need another prompting. He doesn't need the sword either. Not for this... creature. He can stand contact with it just once more.

There is no question about the odd magic Hawke uses - that can be for another time - as he rushes to take advantage of the opening she has carved. Lyrium  **burns** as it bursts to blue-white life, shouldering by a singed warrior still on his feet, knowing Varric or Aveline will cover his back.

Fierce delight shivers through him at the terror present in the eyes that have tormented him for so long, gripping the fragile neck with gauntlet clad fingers and _lifting._

"You are no longer my Master!"

Tighten, tear, **pull** and blood sprays him in the face as the body drops and he throws aside the offending oesophagus with a feral grin.

His former Master, dead.

His freedom, secure.

His past -

Sister.

Varania.

**Traitor.**

**Author's Note:**

> The "shimmer"? Force magic. I imagine that mages gain specialisations through sheer chance and what type of magic they draw upon on instinct in key situations.


End file.
